


The Judge, the Jury, and the Excutioner

by tangerine (arte)



Series: Bees and Retirement [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, F/M, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arte/pseuds/tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His right hand is shaking as the Mark burns. He looks at his hand as if it's foreign. He tries to recall her voice, the warmth in her hands, the thin string of light that used to bring him back. It's like trying to read a page of a book that is too well-worn, discolored by age and dirtied by grubby finger prints. The details all blur together in a mess of ink. He closes his eyes and knows,</p><p>This is where his story ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Judge, the Jury, and the Excutioner

**What is your answer?**

-

There are bodies strewn around him. Demons, all of them, dead.

There's a faint voice in the back of his mind that perhaps, he should have let them be. It's not like those lackeys could have killed him. It's not like it wouldn't have been a blessing if they had suceeded. He was supposed to lay back and let Dean Winchester take care of Abaddon. Why did he take up arms again?

His right hand is shaking as the Mark burns. He looks at his hand as if it's foreign. He tries to recall her voice, the warmth in her hands, the thin string of light that used to bring him back. It's like trying to read a page of a book that is too well-worn, discolored by age and dirtied by grubby finger prints. The details all blur together in a mess of ink. He closes his eyes and knows.

This is where his story ends.

 _Colette,_ he can't further his thought. There are thousands of little prayers stuck at the back of his throats - to never look at him again, to forgive him, to damn him, to not take the blame for herself, to forget about him, to only remember the good he was able to fake for the short period of time - but none of them comes out. He doesn't have words to lay out his soul.

His fingers crawl toward a knife laid on the floor. The Mark throbs in disappointment, craving its pair. He grips the hilt of the ordinary knife tightly.

He needs his excutioner.

-

The demon's body spasms, then stills into a lifeless lump. It's now free of pain, crushing information its only legacy. Cain stays kneeling on the floor, slumped over the body. Both of his hands are clasped tightly around the knife as if in prayer.  

Dean Winchester is now a demon, succumbed to the Mark. In his haste to free the world from his poison, he has only succeeded in creating another monster to roam the Earth.

The bearer of the Mark can only be slain by another with it. Two monsters, but only one can go. A conundrum

Which monster deserves more?

Cain pulls the knife out of the still chest. Blood sluggishly spills over, soaking the white shirt in red. He's now in the position of the judge, jury, and excutioner. He has a trial to prepare, and a cleansing to do. Whatever the result may be, he would make sure that the world would benefit from it.  

- 

**What is your answer?**

Lightening muted with a flowing veil. Thunder held back by a fine glass wall. Cajoling warmth teasingly switching between comforting and piercing.

The very air you breathe, teetering on the verge of turning against you.

 _You don't want to know what ants feel like, Abel,_ thought Cain, wondering if his brother even remembered the conversation they had so long ago. Abel, always brimming with new and interesting ideas, was likely to have forgotten all about it. That was alright. Cain didn't want Abel to think about anything related to God and things much bigger than them right now. If Abel got snagged into this any deeper, his innate curiosity would force him to strain his ears to listen to everything, consequences be damned. It was only a whisper now, but Cain knew that it wouldn't be long before it grew into a deafening sound that would destroy everything that made Abel.

****Perhaps you changed your mind.** I know it can be disconcerting, the idea of killing your brother.**

The voice was soothing, quietly understanding. It made chill run down his spine.

"No," Cain managed to squeeze out his voice. His knees threatened to buckle and his hands were clammy. He balled his hands tightly, nails biting and sharp. The pain served to ground him. "The answer is still yes."

He felt the air grin, and the next thing he knew, his arm was burning.

-

"Hey, what do you think our voices sound like to ants?"

Cain stiffled a sigh as he turned toward his brother. Abel was crouched on the ground, a sickle dangling in his hand and eyes fixed intensely on the ground. Obviously, he was once again struck by one of those idea of his. Cain usually enjoyed listening to the rambling of that bright-eyed brat, but-

"Can't it wait until we get rid of all these weeds?"

"We can't both work and talk?"

Cain lifted his brow. "I don't see your hands moving."

Abel pouted, but did comply. Grabbing at a handful of grass, he continued, "What do you think God looks like?"

"I thought we were talking about ants?"

"It's all related," Abel said with air of importance. He made one very insufferable nine-year old.

"Alright, let's hear it."

"Dad said God is everywhere, but what if He's just really, really big? Like, mountain is actually a hair in His foot kind of big."

Trust Abel to come up with weird ideas.

"That's gross," Cain commented to fulfill his obligation as a big brother and said, "so you were thinking, what, that we might look like God to ants?" Abel nodded. Cain felt good about getting better with catching up with his brother's jumping-like-a-crazy-hare ideas. "Isn't that blasphemy?"

"I wasn't talking anything bad about Him," Abel defended himself. "Anyway, I thought God would sound like thunder. Do you think our voice sound like thunder to ants, too?"

"How should I know?" Cain shrugged. He would have listened if Abel had came up with something, but he was no good at actively particitipating like this. Abel was the one who loved to throw out ideas and toy with them in his head. Cain much preferred to play with things he could actually touch. Give him a piece of wood and he could carve it up into something decent. Weaving wild story was not his forte. "For all I know, they could already be all deaf because they had to listen to loud noises all the time."

"Hmm."

"Give it up, Abel, you can't know everything."

"How can you know?"

Cain shook his head in fond exasperation and clipped his brother on the head. "Come on, you lazy bum. We've got work to do."

-

"Brother-"

Blood gurlged at the back of Abel's mouth. His eyes were blue and wide, disbelif still stronger than any feeling of betrayal. Before the betrayal could win out, Abel tipped forward. Cain caught him in a final embrace, pulling his brother's head toward his shoulder. The body cooled in his arm. He didn't look as he soothed the glazed over eyes close.  

-

_Promise me. You're better than all of this._

-

Dean Winchester broke up with the King of Hell, that's the current running joke in Hell. The ridiculousness of the stories vary - the King found Dean Winchester having an affair with the trench coated angel, the King is limp, the King thwarted Dean Winchester's attempt to seduce him and take over the Hell, the Winchesters' psyches are linked together, so either one of them can't stay dead or demony without the both of them being in the same condition - but the main thread is the same. Any information gathered through the demonic grapevine should be taken with a grain of salt, but with this much of consensus, it is as reliable as it can get.

So Dean Winchester is now a human and is no longer afflicted with the affair of Hell. Too bad it won't hold for long. There is only remission and relapse for the both of them.  

Cain looks around the makeshift burial ground he made. He wonders why he's bothering to bury his victims in a seperate grave instead of dumping them all in one big pit like disposing garbage. He looks down at a teddy bear with a sooty grin, and questions if he had spent too long a time masquerading as something not monsterous, enough to carry on the facade even when no one is watching. Then again, if he were truly devoted to playing a decent human being, none of the bodies would be here. He stops speculating. He has never been the one who was good at teasing the strands of the facts apart and tying them up in a fresh way to make one neat theory. Abel, her, they were the good ones.  

On a whim, he pulls the knife out of its sheath and slashes at a nearby tree. Spindly branches fall, leaves quivering. Once, he thinks he would have picked them up to build something. Now, they crack under his boots.

He moves on to the next target.

-

He didn't know what possessed him to stay and spill his whole life to her. What did it matter if Colette saw him defeating, no, _swatting_  bunch of demons like they were nothing? What did it matter if she had overheard the demons telling him that Hell needed its leader again, that the reign had to be tightened? It would have been smarter to drop everything and disappear without a trace. He blamed Colette for being an incredibly good listener. Over a cup of tea, he told her things that he had told no one before, things that he had kept to himself four thousands of years. He felt empty and drained as his personal history was laid in the open. Colette didn't say anything for a while, thinking and giving him silent scrutiny now and then. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, but nothing happened. She would probably need years to mull over everything, but Cain just couldn't let things be.

He cocked his head and put on a wry grin, spreading his arms wide open in display. "What do you have to say now that you know that I'm the legend himself?"

Colette gave him a long look. At last, she stood up, pulling the chair back and walking toward him, one determined step after another. When she stopped right in front of him, candle lights flickering to make her apear looming despite her petit stature, he had to resist the urge to take a step back. He would have understood if she had stabbed his unprotected chest right then and there, but the idea filled him with dread, even though it wouldn't have hurted him much.

She put her hands on his shoulder, restraining. At his tight expression, she sighed and moved one hand to cup his cheek, bending down to give him a peck on the forehead. When she pulled back, Cain simply stared, too stunned to do anything else. 

"You look as if I have slapped you," she commented lightly.

"You may as well have," Cain shook his head. "You're not-"

"Angry?" Colette lifted her brow. "Regretting the fact that I married a man who didn't even tell me his real name?"

Cain winced. "Yes," he wispered.

Her face softened. "It's a shock, yes, but well, I don't think I would have believed you even if you had told me."

"I shouldn't have married you in the first place," he admitted, shame faced.

"You don't think I make a good wife?"

"No!" He protested instantly. "It's the opposite. You're too good for me. You- deserve better."

"You always sounded too sincere when you said something like that. I always worried about that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she looked him in the eyes. "I've never regretted marrying you."   

He closed his eyes, unable to stand her earnesty. "That was before."

"You're still the same man I fell in love with. That doesn't change just because I got to know more about you."  

"I'm nothing like the man you thought I was. I'm not even human."

"True," she allowed, stroking his hair. "But then, I remembered the small things. You were either an incredibly talented actor who wasted his talent on me, or you were sincere when you said you love me. Trust me, I couldn't hallucinate Cain himself nearly burning down the oven because he wanted to look after me while I was sick."

He made a strangled sound, caught between laughing and sobbing. She pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around her waist, knowing he shouldn't, but unable to remain stoic. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbled his apology, hiding under her warmth. Her acceptance was like sunlight, shining upon his twisted soul. The light lengthened the shadow of his secrets, making them glaringly stand out. The shadows shamed him, for he was not letting her know what she was just accepting here. "When we met the first time, the thief who killed your father and almost killed you," he rasped out. He had come too late. "He was descendent of mine. I should have- I wasn't trying to save you that day. I was - bored. He was in the way. That was all. I took advantage of your gratitute. I'm the Father of Murder. I'm sorry, Colette. I started everything. I'm sorry. I tried to- but I was too late. Colette. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before."

"You can't do that," Her arms tightened around him. "You can't take credit for everything wrong in the world. It'll kill you."

He laughed brittly. He pulled himself out of her arms. "Nothing can kill me. I thought the Bible was clear about that."

"Well, the Bible obviously didn't get everything right," Colette declared boldly, making him snap his head up to stare at her. "No one told me that Cain tried to save Abel from Lucifer. No one told me that Cain was, well, is a good man."

"Weren't you listening? I chose my brother and the world was poisoned. The only good thing I did without severe repercution was saving you, and that was just because I was bored."

"Maybe it started that way," Colette conceded with the air of someone taking a step back to charge ahead. "But what you did after that, sticking around me, helping me, that wasn't just boredom."

"I'm a Knight of Hell."

" _Was_ ," she corrected. "You _changed_. I may not know everything about the life you had led, but I stood closest to you these past few years. I know you. You're a good man."

Their eyes locked, willing each other to listen to them. Cain was the first one to look away. "Colette, you're too good for me," he said with a sigh. 

"Oh, you," she kissed him on top of his head. "I'll spread the corrected version of the Bible of you everywhere if I thought it would help you."

"I know you can," he stood up to give her a proper kiss. He stroked her hair down, wondering if he could be this lucky. "But please don't? Witch trial can be unpleasant."

She smiled like a sun. "As you wish."

-

"Hello, Castiel," he greets the angel. For his trouble, he receives a weary look in return.

The angel's appearance is pitful. His wings are skeletal, and his light is dull, diminished. He is a smoldered piece of paper, so little of it left, yet still being burned away.

Castiel didn't look exactly healthy the first time they had met, but compared to now, he had looked almost majestic, then. The only thing that has improved over the years is the lucidity in his eyes.

A few years ago, he found the angel on his front yard, clad only with a flimsy hospital grub and a tattered trench coat. After babbling earnestly about the bees and houseflies, the angel disappeared, leaving Cain unable to determine the purpose of his visit.

The identity of his intruder, however, was easy enough to find with a little digging.

The next Lucifer. The rebel. The chosen. The slaughterer.

The great Castiel.

He remembers thinking, for a being whose name has been wispered throughout both Heaven and Hell in such varying tones from awe to contempt, the angel himself is nothing to be impressed about.

It was disappointing.

He didn't want to admit it at the time, still bound by his own promise as he were, but he had been secretly thrilled when he had found out that the angel he had encountered was none other than Castiel. He had wanted revenge, a chance to even the scale. With Lucifer tucked away in the cage, the being that was rumored to be the second coming of Lucifer himself was as good as it could be.

When he found the angel once again in his front yard, he come out of the house, intent on proving to himself that this angel deserved whatever retribution coming to his way. The only thing that became apparent was that the angel was already broken.

He gave the angel permission to stay for awhile, and watched him through the window, many questions filling his mind: Was this really a creature of Heaven, a kin of the one who had nearly made him go down on his knees with its mere presence? Where was the barely bound power, the inhuman aloofness? Where was the cold excutioner he had heard about, the one who slaughtered Raphael and drove the King of Hell into hiding?

In the end, Cain had let him go, as he couldn't justify to himself the decision to put down the angel. He changed his location, and thought that was the most excitement he would ever get see for the rest of his exiled life.

Oh, how naive he had been.

"These bodies?" replies Cain, noting ironically how their position, one as a judge and the other as a sinner, is now reversed. "Just cleaning up a mess I made a long time ago."

"Cain, I've met you. You never resorted to physical violence despite my- less than cooperative state. You had resisted for so long. "

"What can I say. I got the taste back," Easy as sliding back home. Like the last century and a half didn't mean a thing. "With Abaddon's army gunning for me, I had to take up arms again. And I liked how it felt."

"Those were demons. These-"

"Humans," Cain supplies. He crouches down as he finds the teady bear rolling on the ground. He picks it up. Its muzzle is now ruined with dirt, its smile completely covered. "The Mark thirsts for all kind."

The angel falls silent. He wonders if the angel read the open invitation in his remark. Castiel is not on his list, and this is not the reason for his visit, but reading guilt on people's face is as easy as breathing for him. The catalyst for any major screw ups in Heaven during the past decade, that is quiet the title for anyone to bear. Cain, the Father of Murder, is already damned. He thinks one more death of an angel by his hand would hardly count at this point.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says at last. "I couldn't find your Colette. Heaven was too vast for me to search only with a first name"

Cain stills. Emotion slips off from his face. Ice slithers up from the bottom, frosting over the waterfall, encasing it completely.

Slowly, he pushes himself up, every movement weighted. The teddy bear is carelessly tossed to the ground.

"I didn't think you would remember that name."

"It was important to you."

"And you thought that she would make an excellent leverage." Cain rubs his fingers together. His demeanor is idle. His breathing is calm.

"No," the angel denies instantly.

"Oh? So you would have tried to find a needle in a haystack for any old demon you came across."

Castiel swallows. "You were kind to me."

"Please, Castiel. You are old enough to know the difference between pity and kindness. Let's not play this game. Why did you brought her up?"

"Dean's in trouble," the angel admits at last. "I remember you. My memory of that time is, not so clear, but you- stood out. No matter what you say, you were kind enough to let me into your place when I needed it. Dean is losing himself. If you can tell me how, if you know anything about the cure-"

"So you were trying to bargain with me," Cain cuts in. He is- almost impressed. He heard about the rumors, of course- how Castiel was the Winchesters' pet with no self-preservation instinct when it came to their problem, doubly so when it concerned the older one. He thought that the demons must have gotten Castiel's motivation wrong. After all, many of them seemed to be convinced that the angel was in love with Dean Winchester, and angels couldn't love, not in that sense. But this desperation, this concern, it was _personal._

He never imagined that an angel could come this close to begging.

"If I had found her, I would have given you her message."

"I didn't say you wouldn't," Cain answers swiftly, still caught in his amusement. "But somehow, I think you would have stopped at nothing if it meant saving Dean."

The angel purses his lips, unable to deny it. "Perhaps," then he raises his head, challenging. "But I don't think Colette would have let me."

The faded page clears for a second, the exact shape of her determined eyes and stubborn tilt of chin almost coming into life. Even faced with an angel, she wouldn't have allowed the delivery of her message to be conditional. No, not her, not the one who promised to re-write every Bible in the world if it meant saving him. Then Cain remembers the trail of blood, his rapid descent. Dozens of people - men, women, children, even the ones who have never hurt a soul- killed and buried right here around him. She is gone again, hollowing him further.

 _No_.

He opens his eyes. Perhaps it is the one last luck allowed for him - that the angel was unable to find her, that she didn't have to face him like this. "It doesn't matter," he says, his voice deeper than usual. "There is no cure. I'm living proof of that."

"There must be a way."

"Don't worry about Dean," says Cain, knowing that the angel in front of him wouldn't take what he's about to say as the gift it is. "I'm planning to take care of all my children. I'll get to him, in due time."

The angel isn't slow. The moment the meaning of his words hits him, his eyes change, fierce and protective. The angel blade slides out from his sleeve, glinting in sunlight.

_So this is how it is, then._

"Sorry, Castiel," he says apologetically. He thinks she would have liked him. "You're not on my list."

- 

 

"Tell me that you _can_ stop!"

The boy is downright begging. His fear and despair are as transparent as a glass. Cain knows that his most disquieting feeling would be something that has no place among all the negative emotional turmoil, the quiet thrill at having the blade in his hand, the building urge to use it.

Can feels the answering throb on his own arm. One word from him, and Dean would lower the blade. He is still capable of that. But looking up at him, the one who fought for his life until the very end, his stubborness lending him the strength to cut off Cain's arm with his own knife, Cain realized that he doesn't have it in him. He's done. He thought he could carry the burden further, to spare this child, but there's nothing left in his life for him to go on. He doesn't deserve this gift, but between the two of them, Dean is the one who can hold back his monster a bit longer.

"I'll never stop," he gives his final blessing.

At his reply, Dean begins to walk behind him with a pained expression. _Kindness_ , he thinks the angel would call it this. He wonders how long the angel would hold out, how long his light would continue to flicker. Could it be considered as defying one's fate if you get to skip the crucial part of one's descent against your will? There's a high chance the angel would die before Dean could get a chance to put more blood on his hands. That'd be the angel's preferred method of death, he's sure. He wonders which one would be worse, helplessly watching the ones you care about dying by the sideline, or putting them to death by yourself. He doesn't know. His people always died under his blade.  

Dean's heavy footsteps stop. Cain knows that he's hesitating until the very last second, that he is waiting for Cain to change his mind. Nothing will change. Things are already set in motion. Without a word, he bows his head and gathers his arms close. It's the familiar pose he used to take beside her resting place. Cain closes his eyes and allows his final thought to be, 

_Colette._

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was just supposed to be short Cain and Cas interation fic, and blown into Cain's whole background story. I blame his majestic mane and glorious beard x) Hope you enjoyed the story!


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